I’ve been trying to bite my tongue about this but I’ll just come out with it. Why do you gotta be such a dick? You fill up within hours of me finally getting the laundry done for the week. It would be nice to let me bask in the “I’ve got all the laundry done, hallefuckingluluah!”, glow. But, nope. I’ll slide open the dresser drawer, put the clothes in, and a minute later, you’re laughing in my face with the basket halfway full within minutes.
During the winter, it’s especially hellish because my husband has thick, flannel lined everything where only one of his outfits takes up the entire clothes basket. We live in New England after all, and for half the year, our clothes are super bulky.
It seems the colder it gets, the longer it takes me to get around to folding the laundry. Actually, I take that back. It always takes me a long time to fold the laundry.
I’ve tried keeping up with the laundry by doing a load every day but that just makes me want to burn all our clothes and join a nudist colony.
So, I do the laundry in one big haul over the weekend.
Friday rolls around. Oh, what the hell. Let’s get a load of laundry started because I want to get a leg up and it’s usually around 8 pm and after a few glasses of wine. Anything sounds fun after a few glasses of wine. Even laundry.
By 9 pm, I’m about ready to drop dead from the insomnia I’ve dealt with all week and leave the laundry in the washer overnight.
My husband, my very sweet husband, I might add, lets me sleep in late on the weekends since he knows I deal with insomnia. I get up ready to tackle the several more loads of laundry for the weekend.
It’s all I have to properly function like a semi-productive human in the morning. I don’t seem to fully wake up until 2 pm on the weekends because I’ve been doing tedious, mind-numbing shit all week. Just making sure my kid gets to school in the morning feels like I’ve run a marathon.
I look forward to thee as much as I do constipation.
And there you sit, overnight, in the washer because the wine made me feel like I’m queen of the world so I will tackle these several loads of laundry.
Oh, but what’s that? My husband is going to throw in a “quick” load of his work clothes after putting the other load of laundry into the dryer. Meaning, he’s going to throw them in the damn washer, start the damn washer, and take off doing everything except the damn laundry he just put in the damn washer. I know I shouldn’t complain and that’s more than some husband’s do but seriously. Seriously?!
I want to say thanks for making me do an extra load I didn’t know existed and that you will now forget it until Sunday night.
This laundry isn’t going away no matter how much I try to conjure up my fairy godmother and the woodland creatures that help around the house in fairy tales. This shit isn’t doing itself.
Finally, with two cups of coffee, I get the momentum to conquer this tower of dirty clothes. And then… then, I’m like fuck this shit by the last load of laundry that’s finally finished on Sunday evening. The “quick” laundry load my husband started on Saturday morning has long been folded and hung up.
I just can never seem to fold that last load of laundry. I have good intentions to fold it and put it away but that dies off day by day.
It starts like this:
Oooh, I’m a nice, fresh load of laundry straight out of the dryer. I want to be folded.
And I’m like “Eh, I’d rather watch “The Handmaid’s Tale” again or “13 Reasons Why”, I’ll do it tomorrow.
Monday morning comes around. After being awake for a few hours, I turn on the dryer for a couple of minutes to de-wrinkle the clothes. Then, I fold them and put them away.
I forget about it. Until, later that night when all I have left for my underthings is my period underwear. That’s when I know I can’t procrastinate much longer. When I hit that part of my panty drawer, I know it’s time to get serious about laundry.
So, I turn on the dryer again and put it in the basket. I’m so close to folding that last damn basket of damn laundry but what happens? There’s usually some excuse for my 8 year-old to get out of bed 50 times a night.
I push the laundry basket to the side of the closet and tend to the hummingbird. Finally, I just want to crawl into bed and fall into a coma.
Tuesday. The basket is still sitting there.
Wednesday. I’m in quite a pickle because I’m on my last pair of period underwear.
Thursday. Time to fold. But, the clothes are so wrinkled and have been sitting there so I’ll deal with it later. I start a new load of laundry. I even actually dry it, fold it, and put it away. And yet, there in the corner of the closet is the basket of whites that is begging for attention, wanting to be folded and put away.
Next thing I know, it’s the weekend and more damn laundry. That poor basket of clean clothes that has been sitting in the closet are there until Monday. I want to just throw them in the dryer but there’s usually someone in this house,
my husband, who mixes the dirty clothes with the clean clothes basket.
I know there’s an easy solution, just fold the damn laundry in the first place, but that’s no fun. So, I wash it again and this time, I grab a few things out of the dryer and put them away because it’s past bedtime and I will end up lying awake in bed for a few hours before I get up and watch Teen Mom 2 on the DVR instead of folding laundry.
I’ll fold the laundry in the basket tomorrow. Or maybe by next Saturday.
Definitely by next Monday.